


The Visitor.

by aliceinbloom



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Susan Kay
Genre: F/M, Le fantôme de l'opéra, Phantom of the Opera - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:25:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliceinbloom/pseuds/aliceinbloom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She would have preferred to stay in her own time with technology and her grandpa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A re-write of a re-write of a re-write. I'll be doing my best to keep it simple and clean. If anyone has any criticism with how things are worded or anything, just message me!

You know what really makes me uncomfortable? My grandfather owns this very awful looking little monkey. He wears Persian robes, has the smile of a demented gremlin, and holds little symbols. They bang silently as some little tune plays when you wind it up. I've asked my grandfather why he owned it but he would never tell me. Well... Not the real reason. All he ever says is that it's a family heirloom, that when it becomes time, I will have it in my possession... I think I'll just sell it when I get it. It's an antique and someone is bound to put it in a museum or in their own personal collection. I don't tell this to my Grandfather but I think he knows I don't like the little creature. 

  
But anyways, my name is Angel. Well... Angela, but I like Angel better. And as cliche as it may sound, my grandfather insisted I'd be named something that was close to being holy. He's a Christian, you see, but he isn't one to toss it down your throat unless you've done something stupid. 

  
_Anyway_ , the reason why I'm telling you about all of this is because recently, weird things have been happening when I get near or even around that monkey I was telling you about. It's _subtle_ things, but they're noticeable to make me skirt around the room it was perched in. I mean the thing will start up and begin to play it's little tune or it'll seem to have turned it's head. Sometimes it looked as if the over-the-top smile would dim or brighten depending on the day.

  
I told my Grandfather about this but he just smiles, pats it's head, and tells me that I should enjoy the fact that the little monkey is giving us attention. It means that there is a special presence among us when he started up like that. What that could mean, I'll never know. I just want it to stop because it's very creepy.

  
But one day, I felt an urge to sing. Maybe it was because the house was so silent since my grandfather was out with a few of his friends or maybe it was because I was bored. I didn't know, couldn't tell you the exact reason, but I knew I could sing freely without being told I should go get lessons. Scoffing at the thought, I think back that it was really very stupid that I should. The only good thing I could do with myself was paint or draw. Singing? Wasn't my exact forte. Sweeping down the hallway, I stopped short at the door of the room with the monkey. Letting out a slow breath, I cracked open the door to find it just sitting there in an innocent manner. 

As I went inside to begin sweeping there as well, I felt myself humming. It was a familiar tune - I think it was something from that Phantom of the Opera play I wasn't allowed to listen to. 

"Think of me,  
Think of me _fondly_ ,  
When we've said goodbye..."

I lost myself in the song. 

I lost all sense of surroundings as I found a new note soaring from my throat by the time it was ending. How was I doing this? I had no idea! I couldn't think of any possible, plausible answer. There was no reason for myself to able to hit this something so clear. Yet once again, as I kept singing, the room began to crackle with that energy I told you about - that odd buzzing of electricity that came when you sang near the monkey. Eyes fluttering open once again, I saw a flash of light that seemed to be brighter than the sun. As I truned around, the entire room seemed to burst into flames but the monkey. It was clashing it tiny symbols and a song so full of emotion seemed to buzz in my ears. When I was able to get my vision back I gasped. 

Instead of being back in my own home I was now in an auditorium that was covered in red, black, and gold. A crystal chandelier brightened the room and there were rows upon rows of chairs. Fear overtaking my senses, I stood there, swaying as everything seemed to come crashing down around me. I didn't have a clue as to what was going on. Had I only been singing just a few minutes ago? Hadn't I turned from the monkey so I wouldn't feel judged by it's beady little eyes? Groaning, I tried to think of any reason for this sudden vision when I felt someone grab me by the shoulder. 

Being turned around I looked at the face of one of the plainest men I think I've ever seen, with the brightest blue eyes. He asked me something in French? before wildly pointing around with his hand. I couldn't figure out what he was saying as it laid upon deaf ears. I felt my vision begin to blur in my growing panic at the situation. 

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a small, lumpy bed with a cool clothe on my forehead. This time it was darker - which made it much easier upon my eyes as I tried my best to look around only to feel like I'd walked into the Twilight Zone. Everything about the room screamed of something being wrong. There was a simple gas lamp off to the side on a tiny little table along with a small stack of books. There was also the strum of a guitar somewhere to my left but I couldn't seem to find myself being motivated to turn my head until the music stopped. 

Frowning, I looked over to see the man who had been gesturing at me wildly. He seemed to be very... happy? that I was currently awake. He began to speak but I couldn't seem to understand a word besides 'Mademoiselle' as he took great care to help me sit up. 

"I don't--," I began as I rubbed at my throbbing head. "I don't speak French." 

"Ah!," he stared at me for a moment, expression pensive as he seemed to think about something. Struggling with his thick accent, "... Alfred." 

"Is that your name?" I paused pointing at him, "Name?" 

He seemed to struggle to understand himself but after a moment, "Oui," he nodded. 

"Angel." I gave a shaky smile. Damn it. I was completely screwed. How come I didn't take French back in high school? I would have remembered-- I tried not to laugh at the thought. That was absolute bull. I had never passed my language classes. I always ended up failing because of my inability to learn it (a.k.a. I was too lazy to listen, too lazy to care). 

When the language barrier was met between us while Alfred tried to ask me questions, the older man sighed in what seemed to be defeat. In the end Alfred ended up motioning to his belly, then cupping his hand to bring it up to his mouth. I knew exactly what he meant and nodded with another unsure smile. It was as I was trying to get up that I noticed my clothing. Instead of my usual lazy pants and oversized shirt, I was actually wearing a rather frilly white shirt and a pair of form fitting black pants. Pawing at the frills of the cotton top, I stared over at Alfred who shrugged.

I was escorted down to the bowels of the Opera House. When we arrived at the kitchen, Alfred went to gather bread, cheese, and an apple. He then motioned for me to follow him again. As I did, I took in the simple paintings to the more intricate ones that lined the hallway we had gone down. It wasn't until we stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway that he slipped the food into my hands and I began to nibble at the cheese.

I watched as he knocked on the door. A few moments later a rather tall man answered. I tried my best keep from reeling back from the smell that escaped the room. It smelled strongly of alcohol, cigars, and paint. Trying to hide my discomfort, I stood behind Alfred to shield me from the stench until he suddenly shoved me forward. Hearing a few more words exchanged (American among them), I was then shoved into the room. Actually coughing, eyes burning, I stared back at Alfred like a nervous puppy.  

The burly man pointed to an easel with a recently painted canvas, explained something, then took up a piece of chalk. He shoved it into my hand while pointing to a few jars of paint on the side.  

Finishing my cheese I nodded, understanding what he wanted, and began to work.


	2. Settling in.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we find Angel settling into her new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Trying my best for this!
> 
> All translations will be at the end of the chapter.

Just a few hours ago I'd arrived at the Opera Garnier ( the Opera Garnier, can you believe that?!) in a flash of light after singing to that damnable monkey. Now, I was finishing a painting after Alfred brought me down bowels of the large building to a man I now knew as Pierre. Pierre was a thin, medium height man with a bald head and thin lips. He wore a simple grey shirt that was rolled up to his elbows with a cigar hanging out of his mouth. He smoked it slowly while he drank a glass of wine. He also made comments here or there to Alfred as I saw him make little gestures as I worked. 

Unfortunately I don't understand a bit of French so it was lost on deaf ears. Humming to myself as I made myself forget where I was so I could finish what I was doing, I heard a gasp. 

"Fantastique! Qui savait qu'il serait si grand!*," I heard Alfred gasp as he stood up from his spot to pear over my shoulder. "Nous devons montrer son travail aux gestionnaires."

"J'espère que cela va signifier ce garçon peut peindre sur une plus grande échelle," Pierre rumbled as I heard him puff out a trail of smoke. 

As I did the finishing touches, I turned from what I was working on to show them in full what I had done. I set the paint brushes I'd use into a cup of water that I'd been given a little bit into my work. I was still curious as to why I had painted something. Maybe Alfred had thought I could do it? Had he figured out what I had been trying to say earlier? Or was it my hands? They were dry, cracked, and calloused from various things I had to do around my home... Could that of been it? Shrugging it off, I tried to ignore the way my mind reeled with too many questions of the mundane things happening around me. 

Curiously, I watched as Pierre leaned forward, dark eyes squinting at the painting. Nodding a few times to himself, he finally stood, pulled out a piece of parchment and wrote a quick note. Turning back to Alfred, he seemed to tell him something before waving him off. He then motioned for me to sit down while handing me an old looking rag. I wiped my hands down before reaching to grab the rest of my food. I was starving at this point. 

"You are American, yes?," Pierre suddenly asked. In English. 

I choked on my bread, "Wha-- yes, I am. You speak English?" 

"Of course I do, some of our stagehands are British." He takes another puff of his cigar. "Alfred took a guess on your abilities. Apparently he was correct, you _can_ paint. I will have your painting taken to the Managers tomorrow so that they may see we have a new backdrop painter." 

"I... I don't know what to say." My throat bobbed nervously. "But uh... why are you helping me? I-- I don't exactly _belong_ here." 

"I was also there when you showed up in the auditorium," he continued. "You passed out before I could make myself known to you as well." A pause, another drag of the cigar. "I cannot explain it but I am sure something brought you here for a reason. For what? We can only find out as you stay and live here. However you will work, we will teach you what you need to know, and you will do your best to stay safe. Is this clear?" 

Staring at him as if he'd grown a new head on his shoulder, I nod, numb to everything that was currently going on. 

Pierre takes another sip of his wine, "Then you will go back to Alfred's room when he gets back. You will rest. You will wake and everything will be settled. You will be our new painter." 

"Yes sir," I replied meekly, staring over at my work. 

What in the world had I gotten myself into? Not that any of this was my intention. Oh no, none of it was! Had I known that the monkey would respond to songs, I wouldn't of set myself up like that. Then again I hadn't _known_. I hadn't a damn clue that I would be here, in the Opera Garnier, sitting in a tiny room with an older man who was telling me what to do for now. 

We sat in silence until Alfred came to bring me back to his room on Pierre's instruction. 

And I slept as instructed, but was a terribly restless one. It felt like I'd woken up every hour on the hour. It was so terrible that when Alfred shook me awake in the morning, I felt like I hadn't slept at all.  But he urged me to clean my face, do my business, and set out with him get to know the Opera house. We walked everywhere from the top of the building, to the cellars. I even met the large black stallion they kept in the stables our back. I got to pet the large creature on the nose, grinning like an idiot when he searched for something to eat from my hand. 

Instead Alfred gave him a carrot he'd had in his pocket for him, "Beau, non?"

"Very," I replied, admiring the beast. He was well kept for a horse who didn't have a very large pen. Then again, I was sure they hooked him up to the carriage or someone rode him daily to keep him happy. 

After that we finally went back to the kitchens. There was a plump little woman cooking her heart out as she yelled out to the other two people to help her get something ready. When she noticed Alfred and myself, she smiled, said a brief greeting and motioned to the side to a large stack of bowls. Alfred gathered two, filled it up with what looked like hot cereal, and gave me one with a spoon and some sugar on top. Thanking the woman before we left, I looked down at the steaming bowl in my hand. 

I already missed my hot pockets I always ate for breakfast. 

Sighing, I ate in silence (trying not to gag at the texture) as we sat in the back of the auditorium. The other stagehands were getting working to gather the large velvet curtains back while the others were pushing various props around to put them into place. After we finished eating Alfred took the bowls to set them down onto a special cart by the stage that was already filled with them. He then motioned for me to come with him. 

We went down a hallway I hadn't been yet towards a pair of ornate doors. Knocking on them, he waited, smiling at me in reassurance as they opened to reveal two men. They looked quite frazzled for some reason or another but instead of shoving Alfred away they asked him something, then practically cheered when they saw me. Faintly I heard 'American' in their rabble, patting me on the back as they rushed me inside of their office. In the corner sat my painting. In the light of the large windows it looked much duller than I had thought but they seemed to be happy enough with it. 

Smiling, nodding when it seemed appropriate, I was then led out to the auditorium again. 

When I saw Pierre belting out orders, I quickly walked over to him. 

"Hey--," I stood besides him. "Pierre? I uh, when do I start?" 

He waved an order to a stout man off to the side before turning to me, "After the production of Hannibal is finished. You will be re-painting several backdrops after that." 

I blanched, "What? Three? I've never even done one!" 

"You will do fine. You made a very fine painting last night." 

"But that canvas was very small compared to what you want you want me to do, Pierre." 

"You will do fine," he repeated before cursing, waving his arms angrily as he went to go show another man how his mistake had been made. 

For now I assumed I would just watch how everything was done. Once in awhile I'd try to help but I'd be shooed off by the other men. So taking a seat off to the side, I tried not to grumble at my irritation of not being able to do anything of use. Which was very frustrating to me because I had so many thoughts buzzing around my head that I didn't want to think about. Mostly they always drew back to the monkey, but others went towards my grandfather. He was one of the only family members I had left in the world and he was alone now. _Truly_ alone. 

Letting out a slow breath, I then found my ears assaulted with the worst voice I think I have ever heard in my entire life. The woman was obviously Italian - that much could be heard from her voice as it rang out loudly from the end of the auditorium. She was rather short with dark hair piled up atop of her head in a neat fashion. She also had the most _gaudy_ looking make up on but I assumed it went with the gaudy red, green, and gold dress with fake jewels scattered about it. Trying not to make a face, I quickly got myself up and out of there before she began to speak any further. 

A few minutes into my travels I found myself truly and utterly lost. I had gotten turned around at some point once I passed the dressing rooms. Now I was somewhere deep in the Opera, at least a level or two down because of how cold it had gotten. It was then that I knew I was in the cellars when I could smell and hear the stallion I had met earlier this morning. Making my way down, padding on the soft soles of the boots (however I had gotten theses comfortable things), I stopped short. 

There, standing before me, was a rather tall man in all black with a cape and fedora feeding the horse something. Thinking he was one of the possible singers of the Opera (or even a patron), I meekly made my way over to stand behind him. 

"Hi! Do you speak English by chance?," I called out, hopeful to have a potential conversation-- 

        -- only to have something wrapped around my throat. 

It felt sleek, tight, and very uncomfortable as I was pulled, then pushes towards a wall so quickly that I could see stars in my vision. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon the crappy translation. I'm not fluent in French at all so please bear with me! 
> 
> Fantastique - Fantastic   
> Qui savait qu'il serait si grand! - Who knew he would be so great!  
> Nous devons montrer son travail aux gestionnaires. - We must show his work to the managers.


	3. Beautiful.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a compliment can save your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the hits! Hope that people keep reading. ^___^

I was seeing stars as I looked upon the most _horrifying_ face I'd ever seen. It was skeletal-like, skin pulled tightly across, a hole where a nose should be and... and I felt myself completely distracted by the eyes that belonged to whoever this person was. They were the most startling shade of yellow but with the anger that radiated from them they looked like two small suns. Then again, my own eyes could be playing tricks on me as the oxygen slowly began to leave my body at an alarmingly precise rate.

Though the haze that I felt overcoming me, I heard the most beautiful voice come from that face, from those thin lips that were curled into snarl as I began to droop against the wall.

And in that moment, though the stars and quickly, overpowering darkness that threatened to overtake my senses, I thought, s _imply **beautiful**..._

The next thing I know I was thumping forward onto my knees, hands catching onto the dirty floor. I grasped at my neck in reflex as I attempted to gather the breath I'd lost while almost being choked to death.

I didn't know how long I sat in that position but when I looked up there was a man - one of the stagehands from earlier - crouching besides me. He looked to be around my own age but other than that I was hardly paying attention. I couldn't seem to see past the burn of those golden eyes. Gently, the man tugged at my hand to get a better look at what I now had around my neck. His face seemed to pale and he hoisted me up onto unsteady feet. I stumbled, blindly grasping at him as he lugged me towards the stair to head up. I heard shouting, Alfred's voice, and I stumbled over to the man I'd only known for several days and clung onto him like a child. 

"What happened?," I heard Pierre's voice boom over my sobs as I was yanked from Alfred. Roughly, I was brought into an area that had better lighting. Calloused hands tipped my chin up, touched my neck, and, "Get a doctor." 

The people crowding around us seemed to flounder for a moment, muttering and angry chatter happening. 

Pierre bared his teeth at the others, "Now! Obtenez un médecin, _maintenant_!"* 

In the next few minutes things seem to blur through the tears. I faintly felt being picked up by Pierre - or Alfred? Who knew! - and brought to a room so that I could lay down. And the person who brought me stayed by my side and allowed me to cling onto them like a child while I waited for the doctor. I faintly felt a hand playing with my short hair and soft words. 

A few minutes (or hours, I couldn't tell), I found myself groggily opening up my eyes to find that I was laying on a more comfortable surface than the bed I shared with Alfred. Blinking, rubbing at my eyes, I pushed myself up onto my elbow and looked around the room. It was neatly decorated with dark wooden furniture with books, files, and other items that complimented it. When I lifted myself completely I noticed a woman sitting at a small, but clean desk. 

In the dim light of the room I could make out her features. She had pale skin, sharp features creased with her age, and wore a formfitting black dress as if in mourning. When she looked up from the paper she'd been scratching at with a fountain pen, she sets it into it's little rest before standing up. Seeming to glide - even with the large black cane she thumped onto the wooden floor  working on she looked me over before standing up, gliding over to the side of the room. A moment later I was handed a glass of water. 

"I am Madame Giry," she begins, "I am the ballet mistress of this Opera House." There is a small pause as she gives me a look to drink the water - which I do. "You gave us all quite a scare earlier," she comments, sitting down into a chair that was by her desk. She settles her cane against her desk. "You would not speak nor tell us what had happened but I have a good idea." 

I sipped at my water again, staring at her in amazement. Another person who could speak English! Wonderful. "I--," my voice cracked, rough from whatever strain I'd been under, "I was strangled by someone, Ma'am. I was in shock." 

"I am aware." There was a pause. "Did you manage to see who had committed this act of violence against your person?" 

"Er...," I settle the glass onto my lap as I wracked my brain. I was still half-asleep after all. "It was a man but I can't remember what he looked like." I stared wistfully at the wall behind the woman's shoulder. "But he had the most interesting eyes I've ever seen."

"Are you sure that is all you remember?" Her lips were drawn in a thin line when I put my attention back to her. "There is nothing else?" 

"Oh-- he um, he had a very nice voice?" 

There was a sigh of frustration. I figured that the end of the conversation since I felt like I still looked lost, "We will have a proper conversation when you are in a better state of mind. You may leave when you feel you are ready." 

Giving a nod, I found myself leaving a few minutes after that, rubbing at the tender flesh of my neck while I held onto the wall to keep myself steady. My nerves were shot but the air in that room had been so thick with tension that I couldn't stay there for very long. 

I made my way down to the kitchens where I was greeted by the cook. She was a full figured woman with messy brown hair and bright eyes. Her dress was a simple grey and she wore a stained cooking frock. When she saw my disheveled appearance, she tsked, said something, then reached into the pot that seemed to be half-full and made me sit. If she saw the bruise around my neck she didn't say anything as I sat down at the large bench off to the side of the kitchen.

"Manger, petit,"* she set out a small bowl with a piece of bread. "Assurez-vous qu'il est parti."

Getting the gist when she shoved the bowl at me, I nod, thanking her with a mumbled response. I couldn't seem to eat however. In fact I picked at what I had as I tried to mull over my thoughts. I'd been attacked by someone who had a deformity that made him look like a skeleton and he had very beautiful eyes and a voice that had felt like a song even as he seemed to threatened me in his attempt to end my life. 

There was one hole in all of this however - why hadn't he? 

Why hadn't he ended me right then and there? I couldn't fathom any reason he couldn't have pulled that noose tighter to snap my neck in two. Trying to still eat my soup, I found my mouth hang open, a piece of potato falling out. I knew why! 

I'd called him beautiful! _Beautiful!_  

I hadn't _thought_ the word at all, I'd said it! I'd call my potential murderer beautiful as he tried to deny me! Standing up, I thanked the cook and skittered from the kitchen in a rush--  

Only to be knocked out by a face full of door.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> Obtenez un médecin, maintenant!: Get a doctor, now!  
> Manger, petit garçon. - Eat, little boy.   
> Assurez-vous qu'il est parti. - Make sure that it is gone.


	4. Trap Doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than my usual chapters! Couldn't seem to get it any longer. Enjoy!

Privacy is not something that I have right now. Ever since the incident with myself being so near death, Pierre and Alfred have been glued to my hips. Why they care so much - I've no idea. It doesn't make a lick of sense. I'm still just a stranger in their home and in their time period. I honestly don't belong in any sense of the word. I think it has to do with the picture I'd seen in Pierre's room one day. It was just a little sketch, beautifully done, of a woman who looked strikingly similar to myself. I would have asked who she was if I wasn't so damn done with how much I've been smothered in the past few weeks. 

Right now I'm hiding out in the little Chapel in the depths of the Opera House. It's dinner time right now. I'm eating the first bowl of soup that they gave out and I'm so, so happy I'd run out to get it. It was so good! Not watery at all. Nice and thick and it was even better with the fresh bread I was dunking into it. I think it was the first bowl of soup I'd had that wasn't going to suck. And maybe it tasted better with the fact that I had a bit of privacy for once (despite freezing my butt off for it). 

Humming happily to myself, I began to tap a beat. Before I knew it I was singing something from my own time. 

"Upon the bridge   
My heart does beat   
Between the waves   
We will be saved   
The air we breathe   
Can you believe?  
Learn to forgive upon the bridge..."

It's from a children's movie but the song is so catchy that even with several weeks without my laptop or a TV, I can remember the lyrics. I guess it's because I was going to do a cover of it (eventually). But it just doesn't fit in this time period. I should be learning more about the works that were currently popular... Yet here I am, setting my bowl off to the side as I begin to dance to the tune I was huffing out. 

By the time I'm finished, I bow to an audience that will never be there. 

But there is clapping. 

There is clapping and a haunting voice and I'm _dumbstruck_. It sounds so familiar to the voice of the man who had been strangling me just a week or so ago. I feel my neck burn as if his hands around it again. Fear grips at me as I grab my soup bowl back up in trembling hands.   

"Because _that's_ not creepy," I respond to the empty room. I must be crazy to think I heard someone celebrating my mediocre singing. "You should really try something else if you want a person's company!" 

And out I went, skittering like a dog that's been booted in the ass from their home. 

I later find myself back at my back drop. I'm not supposed to be working off of the set hours but I can't help myself. I need a distraction from earlier today. I was absolutely reeling that someone had been in the chapel with me. I hadn't seen anyone else in the poorly lit little room so I was absolutely baffled as to how I couldn't've seen the person at all. What worse however, is that despite only hearing his voice just once, I knew it like the back of my hand already. Rich and golden with a twinge of something darker. Much darker than people let on when they spoke of the Phantom. 

It was all _very_ frustrating. 

And what was even more frustrating was that despite successfully avoiding both Alfred and Pierre, I couldn't escape them for more than a few hours. They were right off to the side, drinking something vile smelling and murmuring hushed things to each other. I was sure it was about me but they didn't speak, they just watched me work. 

My hands were going in a frenzy to put what I deemed fit for the play. Colors splashed over colors in a simple way but it was going to look so intricate and well thought out when you looked at it from far away. I was putting the finishing touches to the bottom when something caught my eye. Up in the rafters there was a pair of yellow eyes peering down at me. I figured it to be a cat at first but further inspection deemed it to be something bigger than one. 

I felt that familiar burn in my neck as I glared up at the dark silhouette from where I was standing at. Shaking my head, I sigh, trying not to alert my friends off to the side, I went back to what I was doing -- which was putting my name at the bottom. Be damned if I wasn't going to mark my work! Anyone else tries to do it will have a very well worn shoe up their rear. 

"Alright, finished!" I set my pain brush down, wiping an itch (successfully putting paint on my nose). "Go out to the seats and tell me what you think." 

Pierre relays my message to Alfred. I watch with excitement despite the way my jaw and neck tightens in my nervousness at the eyes still watching from above. When they're both out a good ways I hear gasps from them both. Then a yell -- which is coming from myself as I find myself being shoved down a hidden door I hadn't noticed in the floor boards.


	5. Fire Eyes

When I come to, I'm lying on cold, wet stone. It's  _highly_ uncomfortable. I think I have a crick in my neck as well, maybe a few bruises against my sides. (What is with this time and my health? It seems I'm just prone to accidents.)  
  
But now the main questions - what the hell happened, where am I, and why did someone push me down a damn trap door? With a groan I push myself up, brushing damp bangs away from my eyes. It's unbelievably dark down here except for a torch off to the side. Other than that it's hard to see and I'm straining against what little light I can capture in my gaze.

And then the light is almost extinguished by a figure moving in front of me. I have to squint harder against the light to figure out just what - who - I'm looking at. Who ever this person is, he's very tall, very skinny, and he is wearing a mask. It's black and covers most of his face despite his chin and mouth being visible. He's also very pale and his eyes-- his eyes! It's him! 

It's-- it's the man who strangled me. 

"You are becoming a nuisance," it - no,  _he_ \- growls. In English. English! Perfect English with no French accent. It's very startling to me. I haven't heard perfect English in the two months I've been here.

"Wha-- how? I haven't--," I rub at my eyes, trying to get the way my world seems to be spinning to go away. "You're that... " 

"I am no one of importance to you," he begins, cutting me off. "But you, madame, are getting in my way. I must suggest you leave at once." 

"Wait---" 

"I do not need anymore distractions from my true goal for this Opera house." 

"Are you---" 

A gloved hand goes over my mouth, the other behind my head. I yelp in surprise, eyes wide as I stare into practically glowing eyes in the dark. His grip is dangerously tight. "Mademoiselle, I must insist that you shut. Up." He continues once I nod, "As I was saying. You are a distraction. You must leave." 

I reach up to tap at his hand, trying to give a protest despite it being muffled by the leather of his glove. He gives an irritated, long suffering sigh. 

"But I can't!" 

"And why can you not do such a simple thing?" 

"If I do, I'll be homeless. I'm an orphan. I have no family and-- and wait, how am I distraction? I didn't do anything but do the job the Managers have given me!" 

His hands curl again, flexing dangerously. I think he has an explosive temper but he's trying his best not to snap. At least... that's what I think is happening as he glares down at me. His mouth is set into a scowl as he suddenly throws me down. I hit the wall with a 'thud' and I whimper as pain shoots through my already pounding skull. My hands go up as I try to find my balance. 

"I will make you leave." It sounds like he's whispering to me but he's standing now. He's very far away. I think my vision is failing me from the bigger bump he's given me. "I will not have distractions within my Opera house. Now stay there. Your little lapdogs are coming this way." 

"Wha--" And I stare at a now empty space. 

As if on cue, Alfred is trudging up to me, out of breath. I can't hardly see his expression but I have a feeling it's relief. Or maybe it's fear. Who knows with him at times. 

"Did he hurt you?," And Alfred is crouching besides, touching my face gently with his calloused hands. So completely different than the gloved ones that had been gripping me before. "Did he... do anything... unsavory?" 

"N-No," I was still staring at the empty space. "He... he didn't do anything." 

At least... not this time. Alfred is able to hoist me up, arm wrapped around my middle securely as he trudges me along the tunnel we were apparently in. I could hardly think as light began to come into view. Before I knew it, I was sitting on top of a crate. I could feel the rough edges through my thick, wool pants. There's muttering from Alfred as he seems to inspect me more thoroughly. Curses are suddenly tossed about as he forces me to look down. 

I had a feeling they weren't going to let me out of their sights now after this.

_Ever_. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried super hard to write this! I'm sorry that the ending was weak again. I'll try harder with the next one.

For awhile, life calmed down. I could sleep easier, I ate regularly (even though for a good week I practically had nothing in my stomach (that is, to say, until I passed out, and Pierre forced me to slowly start back up with broth and bread)), and my paintings came at an alarming rate. I was painting eyes, paintings everything and anything as fast as my hands and fingers would allow it. Eventually I had begun to find paper and charcoal in my room. I never question it, just used it. Used up every single inch of that paper until I couldn't see anything but the twisted, panicked masterpieces I'd created. Weeks went by where the man in the mask didn't bother me. My back drops were fine, Alfred and Pierre had calmed down as well because there wasn't anything to worry about -- 

_Until a chorus girl disappeared._

Chaos erupted in the opera house barely five minutes after. It was kind of annoying even if I understood why everyone would be so worried. 

From what I had learned with just listening to the ballet rats the girl's name was Christine and she was apparently a musical protege. She sang like a song bird. She's was pretty and sweet and was apparently very obsessed with someone she called the 'Angel of Music' and I heard her giggling once or twice about the guy who was funding everything. What was his name... Raoul? I think? Raoul de Something-or-other. He always came with his big brother who was always fawning over the prima ballerina La Sorelli (who I found myself staring at more than once as she danced on stage).

I admit I should have paid more attention to everything that happened and yet... I was indifferent to it. I don't know why that was the case yet I couldn't bring myself to worry about anything other than my paintings. It was like obsession had taken over in order for me to function. If anyone noticed, they didn't say anything. Besides that, I had my own little world with rowdy drunks and humble men who thought of me as a little brother. It was amazing and I was more than happy to give them everything I could I had while I desperately tried to keep myself occupied. 

Yet one day something struck me out of my funk to bring me into a new one. I found myself staring at dresses in a window while going to the store. They were very ornate, very feminine, and they practically what I thought any high class lady would get to wear if they had the means to. I apparently had been staring too long because a woman came out to shoo me away from the window. Jogging away, I was thankful that none of my mates had seen me pining after a dress. They already made fun of me for being feminine to the begin with so this wouldn't have helped. Once I was around the corner I went back to walking.

I couldn't stop thinking about the light blue dress that had been to the far right. I couldn't stop thinking about the black buttons that traveled down to the waist or the way the skirt poofed out so pleasantly. It was so gorgeous, so simple, that I found that I wanted it. I wanted that damn dress. It probably cost a good fifty or higher though so I knew I could never afford it. Irritation set in while I thought about how I'd made the choice to dress as the opposite sex - not that I'd had a choice in the matter. Whatever had sent me back had already set the table. I was to play a man while I was stuck her. For what reason? I could only guess. I turned my thoughts back to what I was trying to do outside of the Opera House to begin with. 

I needed snacks. 

Rather, I wanted snacks. I wanted fruits and dried meats to eat if things got _unsavory_ in the kitchens.

Turning down another street I headed towards the market. Easily enough I barter a few things down to an acceptable prize, flashing a huge smile at the sellers. They seemed to be dazzled by myself. I was very ah, persuasive when it came to what I wanted here. Try this out in the Opera House? Nope. Not happening!

Putting things into a bag I'd made out of an old, ratty costume, I made my way back home. It was beginning to get dark by the time I was inside. I was just beginning to head to the back when I suddenly heard a commotion between the Managers. 

"Mystery after Gala night', it says, 'mystery of Soprano's flight--" 

And I almost dropped my belongings while I rushed to hide. Curiosity was far too high to leave just yet. I watched everything pan out, almost mystified myself when a voice could almost be heard whispering the final note to the crowd of people who had formed in the main lobby by some weird chance. They had all heard it too but seemed to play it off as a coincidence while the Managers took La Carlotta off to the side to beg for her to come back to them. 

Making a noise of disgust in the back of my throat, I stuck my tongue out as I walked down to my room. I set my things to the side once I made it to the cramped space. It was cold enough down here that they would stay fresh for a little longer so I didn't care what happened to what I bought right now. I was hardly thinking about that though. I was thinking about everyone back in the lobby. I found it kind of weird that they wanted to go against someone who was so good at messing up everything they put together. Yet their decision was their own. I could only sit back and watch. 

The next day turned out to be interesting as well. Christine Daae returned, unscathed, and seemingly happy to be out of the limelight for a bit while Carlotta took over again. I was almost tempted to ask if she was truly fine but there was something that was stopping me. I felt that if I talked to her, the man in the mask would have a fit. Why did I care? I don't know. I'm just going to assume that I didn't want a replay of the last two meetings to happen.

It was mid afternoon when I was able to get away from everything for awhile. Sitting in the little chapel, I sat back against the stone wall to stare at the large glass window that had been put there once upon a time. It glowed from some unknown source of light. I began to hum, which turned to singing. It was not the best but I was irritated with how things were going. My drawings had come to a halt because I'd run out of paper and I had no outlet for the free time I had. So singing? Singing became the outlet. 

"Think of me, think of me fondly...," my voice cracks lightly and I straighten up, clearing my throat. I try again. And again. And when I hit a certain part I can't help but allow myself to flop to my side so I can stare at nothing. I'd gone so long without singing that I couldn't seem to do it anymore. 

And then, suddenly, " _Mademoiselle_ , may I suggest breathing exercises? Not only would help with the rasp you have acquired, perhaps it would also help to sing for longer periods of times without becoming winded." 

"What did I say about hiding? That's not how you make friends," I grunted in response, glaring at the wall. I wasn't phased this time but I wasn't any less irritated with everything. "Besides, I'm too busy with my work to sing properly." 

"One is never too busy for music," he responds. "You will make time for it. I will teach you." 

"I have work, Masked Man," I mutter back, voice echoing slightly. "I have to start the new backdrop for the next play." 

"Can you not get a partner to help you? It would give you time to sing." 

"Weren't you there when I tried that? I had Pierre fire him the next day because the idiot couldn't hold a brush properly." 

There's a hum, "Meet me here for your lunch break. Tomorrow. No exceptions." 

Before I could protest there was the soft pad of feet coming down the stairs. I stared in shock as the one and only Christine Daae looked at me owlishly, surprised to see someone else there. Mumbling something inaudible I disappeared as quickly as possible. 

I felt so screwed.

 


End file.
